


Snow Day

by dreamycastaway



Category: Zombies Run!
Genre: Depressed Runner Five, Fluff and Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-24
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-11-29 00:26:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18215705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamycastaway/pseuds/dreamycastaway
Summary: Runner Five is depressed and Simon tries to do something nice.





	Snow Day

**Author's Note:**

> Second person pronouns for Five, dialogue purposefully ambiguous as to if it's spoken or signed.

You stare up at the ceiling of the runners’ quarters, such as it is. It’s really the underside of the sagging hayloft of Janine’s old horse barn. She’d figured it was as good a place as anywhere to house all the runners – they’d been able to turn all the horse stalls into small bedrooms for each of the you. There wasn’t space for much, but most of you really only had your running shoes, anyway. 

Your eyes traced the grain of the wood - you’d practically memorized it over your many sleepless nights. Winters had been hard for you before the apocalypse, but this was different; it was unlike anything you’d ever felt before Day Zero. It wasn’t like your regular wintertime blues, and it wasn’t like how you’d felt after seeing those things you’d seen while in the army. It was something different, some kind of post-apocalyptic stress. The knowledge that your life will cycle on like this, one misstep away from a fate worth than death. The fatigue of futility. 

You sigh, deeply, as you accept that you aren’t going to be able to go back to sleep. It’s always frustrated you that this deep tiredness never translates to sleepiness. You swing your legs over the edge of the bed and let them dangle for a moment above your running shoes, a moment to reconsider getting out of bed and dooming yourself to the rest of the day. 

There’s nothing else for it, you decide. At least an early morning run might get you in a better space to approach the rest of the day; lying in bed certainly won’t. 

You take the plunge and push your feet into your running shoes. You pull your softest tank top out of the cardboard box containing your few possessions. Might as well have something nice. You look between your shorts and your sweatpants, ultimately deciding on the pants. You’ll only be jogging, after all, and it is the middle of February. You leave the cardboard box open. There’s no reason to close it; you don’t have anything anyone would steal. 

The small box upsets you. It’s not the size – you were used to having few possessions in the army. It’s more the impermanence of the cardboard, the faded logo of a moving company that taunts you from the sides. It was never meant to hold all of someone’s things forever. There’s no way of replacing it, you couldn’t carry back a dresser even if you were able to find one. But you so want to get rid of it. It gives you the sense you won’t be here long. Sam has tried to address this countless times – he always says things like “Of course this is your home!” But Sam has that old filing cabinet to keep his stuff in. He wouldn’t get it.

You halfheartedly kick the box on your way out the door. You do your best to be quiet, but the floors are creaky, and so is the old barn door. You think you hear something behind you, but you don’t turn around. That instinct is gone. Instead, every muscle in your body tenses up and you propel yourself out the barn door, towards the perimeter. There’s no need to turn around after the apocalypse; catching sight of a zombie won’t save you from it. The best you can do is run. You’ve reached the wall before you realize it was almost certainly just someone snoring that set you off. Ugh. You pinch the bridge of your nose. Hopefully it wasn’t actually another runner walking around … that would be embarrassing to explain later. 

It was still dark – the sun didn’t rise until around seven this time of year, probably about an hour from now. That gave you probably an hour and a half until the township began to rise from the dead, in the slow, stepwise way it does every morning. The generators don’t make enough power to spare for things like alarm clocks, so everyone got up at their own pace. Or, at least, at the pace of their roommates. Hardly anyone was up at this hour. Maybe the head chef, but she would be in the kitchen making breakfast right now; you didn’t have to worry about running into her. 

These early morning runs were becoming increasingly common for you. You couldn’t sleep, and this was the closest you could get to solitude. Your world had shrunk so much since Day Zero. Abel was small, and crowded. Your room was an old horse stall. Your stuff all fit inside a cardboard box. It really got to you, sometimes. Running alone in the morning was the best you could do to get away from that feeling – the feeling that the last of civilization was squeezing you so tight you might just burst. 

You run around the edge of Abel. Past Janine’s house, with the boarded over windows it’d had since the start of the apocalypse. You shiver. You hadn’t noticed you were cold until you caught a glimpse of your breath clouding the air in front of you. You instinctively raise your hands up to rub your bare arms – why’d you wear this tank top? You pick up the pace in the hopes of warming up. It helps a little, but not enough for you to break a sweat. You run until you come up on the comms shack, at which point you slow down, almost involuntarily. 

You’ve thought about waking Sam up during many of these early morning runs. Your heart aches – the comms shack is always so warm, because of the generator, and Sam’s voice is so comforting. You come almost to a complete stop, hand hovering just above the doorknob. You peer through the small window – the inside of the shack barely illuminated by the faint blue glow of Sam’s monitors, brightness turned down, but not off. Ever vigilant. The pale light shines faintly on Sam’s sleeping face; he’s fallen asleep in his chair again. He’s been pulling double duty a lot lately. You couldn’t wake him. He needs all the sleep he can get. You turn away from the shack. He’s got enough on his mind without your problems to think about. 

The cold caught up to you while you were standing there. Your teeth chatter, but you hardly notice as you start running again. A couple of fat snowflakes fall lazily down towards the frozen ground. If the snow sticks, it might prevent today’s runs. Do you want the day off? Or would you rather get some space and get out of the township? You sigh again. Everything tires you out these days. Even nothing. 

You take several more laps around the township. The snow keeps falling, heavier now, some of it catching in your hair. The sweatpants were definitely the right choice, and you’re regretting the tank top more and more. It’s cold enough that the snow might actually stick. You’ve lost count of how many laps you’ve done by the time the sun breaks over the horizon, the grey dawn shimmering off of the snow. People will start waking up soon. Janine is usually the first up after sunrise, being accustomed to farm life. Then Maxine, then Eugene. Jack wakes up when Eugene does, despite his wishes otherwise.   
You head back towards the runners’ quarters, crunching the powder under your feet. You try to remember what runs were scheduled for today – if they’re non-essential missions, you definitely won’t be sent out in this. You feel relief wash over you as you approach the old barn door. The wooden walls aren’t great at keeping the cold out, but it’s more about the knowledge that you’re inside. You push the door open as quietly as you can manage and do your best to tiptoe down to your room. Technically being loud is fair game now that the sun is up, but runners are always tired. It would be rude to wake anyone. 

You open the flimsy particle board door Janine had installed on the horse stall to ‘give you some privacy, at least.’ You jump back, catching sight of the figure on your bed.

“Hey now, Five, it’s just me. No need to go running off like you did earlier.”

Fuck, so someone was actually awake this morning. And, to make things worse, it was Simon. 

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “What are you doing here? I want to go back to sleep.”

He straightens up, suddenly. You rarely see Simon approach something seriously, and it takes all of your willpower not to roll your eyes. 

“Listen, Five. This is an intervention.” He says, solemnly. 

You’re too confused to laugh at his ridiculous, concerned expression. An intervention for what? And why is it just Simon?

“But… it’s just you?” 

“Well, yeah,” He looks embarrassed, suddenly. “We didn’t want to overwhelm you by having everyone pack in here. But we’ve all been talking … you’ve been acting weird lately, all these midnight runs, and all.”

Ah. So people have noticed. You’re not sure which is more likely – that there actually was some discussion amongst the runners, and they chose to just send Simon, or that Simon decided to do this on his own, and is just trying to save face. It’s clear word of you “acting weird” hasn’t reached Sam, or else it would surely be him sitting here instead of Simon. That’s kind of a relief. Undoubtedly, Sam is more comforting than Simon, but you wouldn’t want to worry him. Simon, on the other hand … well, it’s kind of cute to see him care about something.

Simon stands up. “That’s it, intervention’s over?” you tease him. Surprisingly, and unfortunately, he doesn’t take the bait. He walks up to you, and you’re struck by how much taller he is than you. He owned some gyms before the apocalypse, and it shows. Simon Lauchlan certainly never skipped leg day. Or arm day, or any other kind of day. Suddenly, he wraps his arms around you in a huge bear hug.

“Christ, Five, you’re freezing. Why’d you wear this flimsy tank top out in the snow?” Oh. You guess you’d never really gotten a chance to warm up. You shrug. “I’m serious,” he says, in that exasperated tone of voice people use to try and hide that they’re worried, “you need to take better care of yourself, or you’re going to get sick.” 

“At least if I got sick Janine would have to give me the day off.”

Simon pulls back from your embrace and looks you in the eyes, like he’s trying to figure out what to say next. You stare him down, trying your best not to let any kind of emotions show through. You guess it doesn’t work, because Simon’s shoulders slump forward, and he turns his face away. 

“Look, Five, I know … what this is like. I know it was stupid to think I could make it go away.” He exhales heavily. “But … I did get you the day off, and I borrowed Jack’s portable DVD player. Everyone agreed you work harder than almost anyone else around here. You deserve some self-care.” 

Self-care. Now, there’s a concept you haven’t heard much about since the dead started rising from the ground. But really, if you’re being completely honest, it’s a concept you hadn’t heard much about before the apocalypse. It’s not like the army was invested in making sure you did enough facemasks, and your college years were no picnic. Your shoulders slump forward a little bit as you realize how long it’s been since you made a concerted effort to take care of yourself. 

“Okay.” You acquiesce, half defeated, half relieved. “But turn around, I want to put my pajamas back on before we watch.” 

Simon can’t conceal his smile as he makes an exaggerated show of covering his eyes and facing away. You quickly change out of your running pants and into your pajamas, which are just another pair of sweat pants. You know in the back of your mind its stupid to designate a perfectly good pair of running pants for sleeping, but something about the ritual of sleepwear helps you feel like a real person. 

You get back into bed. 

“Christ, Five, how long does it take to change into a diff –” Simon is cut off as your pillow hits him in the shoulder. You flash him a mischievous grin and hold out your arms for him to toss the pillow back to you. 

“I can’t believe you threw that at me. What are you, ten?” He asks as he climbs into bed next to you, still wearing what he slept in last night. 

“No, I’m Five.” 

Simon rolls his eyes at the pun, and makes a big show of pretending like he’s going to get out of bed. You grab him by the shoulder and pull him back down to a seated position. 

“What are we watching?” 

“Huh, I don’t know, actually. Jack picked the movie. He said you’d like it though, so …” 

You lay your head against Simon’s shoulder as he fumbles with Jack’s DVD player. He’s right: this won’t make everything go away. But, you think, as the previews for movies that never ended up being released start rolling, it will make today better.


End file.
